Dear Boss, you're in for a surprise
by narwhals
Summary: My name is Rolf Myers, I'm an officer in the Scotland Yard, and lifes about to get a hell of a lot more confusing : A continuation of the movie where another serial killer pops up, the killer mimics Jack, but something is much more wrong this time around


It's been years, nearly a decade, since a case like this has happened. It's so ungodly similar to the horrors of the previous terror on the streets that men stare in disbelief rather than disgust; in awe rather than in curiousity; in fear rather than feeling immortality crumble away from them. This is only a reminder to everyone, not a realization, and as I strip away the awestruck look on my face my eyes wander the streets. A few people behind me whisper, a few people studying the corpse shake their heads. I slip into stoicness and walk boldly forward.

"Son, you're not suppose to be here."  
I look around, and turn back to give the medical officer a raise of the eyebrow, "I seem to be the only one that really _is_ here. Clues, evidence-- it's all going cold."  
The man's brow furrows, but after a quick assessment of the other Scottland Yard folk he gives a sharp nod and steps aside. He looks down at his feet, though his nose speak for him as it pinches in disgust at the putrid smell of death.

I swallow, keep myself calm, and step forward looking around the area. We aren't taking the body in for an autotopsy since this is not a "special death", but the pompus arses in charge know enough to make it look like they're interested. The streets of London are where gossip starts-- expecially when a murder such as this occurs. They need to make it look like we're taking this seriously so that the people of London won't carry around weapons and attack anyone that so much as sneezes in their direction.

In all honesty I'm surprised I got past him, it seems my faux confidence is better than I thought, and my stomach twists as it comes to find that my confidence was really all too fake and not real enough to keep my lunch down. With all the composure I can muster I run off to the side and feel as sickness pushes it's way out of my mouth; there's nothing I can do to stop it, but as I come back up, whiping the back of my hand across my lips, I send a few other officers firm looks, daring them to smirk. Afterward, as I approach the corpse, I find myself picturing their faces, looking for a hint of contempt-- instead my mind remembers green hues and sunken in eyes. No one is composed, so my words to the medical officer had been too true. It hadn't been my skilled acting, it had been luck that everyone really was as bad as I implied.

Staring down at what used to be a human being I blink rapidly, and everytime my eyelids close I see him. I see the past murders I had studied before joining Scotland Yard, I see the headlines, and they all read the notorious name _Jack the Ripper._ It was proposterous, simply impossible, and yet here was incisions, flapping skin, and organs obviously missing; here he was in spirit, taunting everyone. How could this possibly be him?

"The cuts aren't medical precision, they don't show any medical training what so ever," one medical man said, crouched down and prodding the carcass.  
"Mmm, yes. This is not him," The other said quietly, and relief was evident in both men's faces.

As the words sink in I walk away, hands shoved into my pockets as my eyes roam the alley way. Of course it wasn't him, and I feel foolish for formally even considering it; it had been an emotionally driven conclusion, and one that was obviously wrong. The victim was male, probably younger than twenty, and the victim's eyes were mutilated. It was the exact opposite of Jack, but it suggested someone that idolized him. A copy cat ripper. Disgust wrinkled my upper lip, but I focused my eyes on my surroundings.

Escape routes, entrances, foot prints-- I all commited them to memory. Then, on the wall, I saw what chilled me more than any other thing could.  
Dear Boss, the letter, was pinned up to the alley way wall; it was no copy.  
It was the original.

Three long steps; one, two, three, and then I furvishly grabbed the letter. My eyes scanned over it, rereading again and again, convincing myself that this was indeed the letter I was terrified it might be. Seeing I had something in my grip one of the green hued officers from before came to my side and openly gasped as they saw what I was holding in my hand.

"My lord," he muttered, and as I stare in disbelief I hear the distant footsteps of a man running in the opposite direction. I shake my head, I look up, around, I look back down, I sigh in a sudden wave of fatigue. This murder just became too much to ignore; the higher ups would have to listen to me now. I had told them this had potential of another serial killer, but they insisted that Jack was gone; now I know, I hadn't been imply Jack at all, I had been implying his minion, his admirer. The Copycat Jack. My stomach twists again, though this time it's out of excitement. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm excited-- this could be _my_ big case! I could find the next big serial killer and go into history, I might not use opium and be clairvoyant, but I could solve this. I was confident in myself, and this time the confidence was not fake. I felt it burn in my veins.

"Myers," A voice suddenly snapped through my mind, sharp, and authoritative, "the Cheif wants to see you, and the letter, in his office."

My eyes snap over to the corner of my eye sockets, taking in the man that had demanded I go to the cheif. He wasn't in the least bit nauseas and he looked bored; he was higher up than me, a simple officer working his way up. I sneer at the authority he presumes over me, wrinkle my nose at the fact that the Cheif has decided to take things more seriously now rather than earlier; people with power are so arrogant after they fight their way up. I promise myself I won't be like that, if or when I get up there. I'll see things for what they really are.

Folding the letter as casually as possible I slip it, and my hands, into my long coat's pocket. London is warming up, but I haven't really seemed to notice this until I feel a heat crawling up my neck; I want to take my coat off, but think better of it, shrugging off the discomfort and crawling into the open carriage and am wisked off to our main buildling. It looms over most of the other buildings and most of the people as well; considering most people have a guilty conscience they advert their eyes when they walk past, shivering in the shadow of the law that sometimes isn't quite as clean as one would hope. I consider this home more so than anything else and I walk boldly into the building and up flights of stairs until I am staring at the large wooden door that had gold, metal script saying bolding, "Cheif M. Briskly."

Giving the door a flippant look, I pull one hand out and gentely push down on the handle before stepping into the office with my eyes downward. I have learned to look submissive in this man's office, I've learned that it's better to avoid conflict than to be brash and sarcastic as I normally am. After all, he's incontrol of me and I want this case. I want this case more than I can express.

"Myers," the voice bit out, obvious disdain in the syllabals, "sit down, would you?"  
I smell the smoke of a pipe before I see it, and as I sit down in the chair infront of the large desk piled with papers I cross one ankle over onto the bend of my knee. My ankle peeks out from the brown slacks I wear, little red leg hairs curling there, reminding me just why it's so hard for me to climb up the ranks in this damned place. Irish sentiments didn't run high here, and I am painfully irish. Green eyes, flaming, pure red hair, and a pale complextion-- I even have that odd lanky, muscled look on me. My genes can't decide if I'm forever going to be stuck as an adolscent or if I'm going to fill out by the time I'm thirty. As for right now, being twenty-three, I figure I'll let my heritage fight about it and leave it at that.

"I understand you were the first one to really assess the scene, son," The voice said, though his little title he'd given me hardly felt a priveledge. Inwardly I was insulting the bulbous idiot across from me, but instead I settled for a tight lipped smile and gave a nod. He sighed, muttered something under his breath, looked upward, and then back down at me before saying, "You saw the letter."  
"Yes sir."  
"You have the letter."  
"That is correct, Cheif."  
"I need that letter back."  
I paused even as I reached into my pocket to get it, something felt wrong, but maybe it was just my disliking him. It wouldn't be the first time my emotions blocks my clear thinking. Finally, I retreived the folded paper and handed it to him. He frowned, muttered something, again and then said, "Very good, that'll be all."  
I blinked, "Sir?"  
"You can go."  
I gave a short laugh, "I understand that sir, my problem is-- well, don't you want to know what I saw?"  
"No, not particularly."  
I was taken aback, even though I leaned foward with narrowed eyes, "Sir--"  
"This is not the case you think it is, and even if it was, you wouldn't be on it."  
"With all due respect sure, that's bullocks. I was there, I saw the clues, I found the letter; I've studied the Ripper cases tediously, painstakingly, this would be _my_ case more than anyone elses."  
"This has nothing to do with Jack, now leave," His eyes were hard, they reminded me as to why he was cheif and not someone else.

Begrudgingly, I obeyed, but silently I replied, _You're wrong, this is my case now._


End file.
